


The Two Halves Of The Cosmos Are Tied By Golden Thread

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Ancient Egyptian Literature & Mythology, Gen, Neil Gaiman's American Gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tale is told before Judgement can be given.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Two Halves Of The Cosmos Are Tied By Golden Thread

**Author's Note:**

> The Reader and The Companion are the tellers of the Ianto and Jack's life stories.
> 
> I'm very sorry for this insanity. I wrote this just after I finished reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods and I think it scrambled my brain.
> 
> This was written for the 2012 torchwood_fest for the prompt “Ever notice when someone tells you that you’ve asked a very good question, you usually don’t get a very good answer?”

“He was born at the half of the light. He grew up with others, grew up alone, grew up asking questions and looking too far forward.”

The book is old and dark and never full. Fingers and tongue caress the written words and the unwritten pieces of lives.

“And what about his family? His actions?”

The Reader looks again. “His family became one from three. His home became that no longer. He ran.”

“And before?”

“Before, he was quiet. He was small. He stood when he was loved and hid when he was not. He watched the Sun far more than the Moon, then. He played with others but he was not like them. He could not think what they did; he could see what they could not. After, there was destruction of the Head and the Shoulder, and he was crooked and in pain.”

There are yellowed pages full of ink that is always wet, yet it never smears. Fingers run over and across them, reading and feeling and examining. They are never stained, never tainted. The words are what matters, not the ink.

“He left.”

And here there are distinctions. There are specifics, and the Reader reels them off like a grocery list. The page turns, and the untarnished fingers glide across.

“He wandered. He joined an organization too mysterious and immense for him to know their true motives or power until it was too late. He learned greed there, and malice, and deceit. He learned trust there, as well, and love. He learned distance. He already knew darkness, but he became acquainted with it further. It destroyed a part of him. He left again, then. But part of him held on.”

The Reader slides a finger between the page and its successor, frowning at the weight, at the strange dissonance of letters. The Companion is unsettled at the frown, but it is their duty to listen and to wait. The Companion leans over, but does not look at the tome, for that is the Reader’s territory, and the Reader’s alone.

The crease smoothes into the familiar expression of neutrality and detached judgement and three fingers slide under and push the page over. Words cross and loop back on each other and overlap and circle. The Reader is undaunted.

“He kept it too close and held it too tightly and the shadows nearly took him. He did the wrong thing at the wrong time for reasons that were both too right and too wrong to be judged. Another destroyed it for him and changed him and recreated him.”

“And what did he become?”

“That is a fair question.”

“Well?”

“He was recreated and he followed. He loved twice again after losing love—after losing everything. The first was stronger but more hurtful than the second.” The finger was steady on the page. “He had secrets and he had masks to hide within, but so did all the others. Their method of survival was to keep hidden most vulnerable skins and thoughts. He created and supported and destroyed for the intention of good. He wanted to know things he could not understand.”

The Companion wants an answer to the question, but knows the Reader will not answer. Bad answers will not be given, and if there is no good answer, then there is no answer at all.

“There is more to him?”

“Yes. He was a follower forced to lead. He was a lone creature forced into group life. He was a thing of strange gentleness forced into brutality. He was born in a time not suited to him, and stuck in a time not for his kind. The damage was quietly acknowledged and he learned the struggle. When he found another that was the same, yet opposing, who could hold him up, he accepted.”

“And what were they together?”

“Polarized.”

The page slides again. The ink is darker now, heavier with weight of deeds and Time. Words like _love_ and _hate_ and _reason_ and _need_ and _disorder_ and _end_ and _begin_ jump from the page. There is no black and white and the Reader frowns.

“He was made to act upon deeds he did not want to do. He refrained from doing things he wished to do. He was rash, and he was careful. He chose neither one nor the other. He chose both.”

“How is this possible?”

The Reader looks to the Companion and there is laughing knowledge in the eyes that stare back. “He is unique. Certainty orbits around him. Uncertainty rotates the opposing direction. Things change and yet remain the same. The Vortex bends, and Time shifts and breaks and comes together.”

The gaze returns to the page. The fingers return to their dance. The rest of the story matters little, for the important parts have been passed over and examined, the Reader knows. But the chronicle must be told in its entirety. The Reader recites the rest in quiet tones and answers no more questions. There is no black and white, and the Reader would smile if lips were to be had. The grey hues are familiar, as are the swiftly changing lines of wet ink.

“He found a place of stability, despite all he did to keep from becoming bound. He left and returned thrice, but when he left once more, it was this time permanent.”

The book is closed, black and heavy and eternally unfinished.

“And now the Scales?”

“Now the Scales.”

The Companion stands and retrieves the golden Scales. A third pair of dark hands retrieve a jar from the shadows. Then another.

“He had two hearts?”

“No. That is another One. Two hearts will be judged as one this time.”

The standard judgement weight is placed. The Scales tip.

Teeth gleam in a corner of the darkness. Peaceful eyes watch calmly from the opposing direction.

The jars are placed by dark hands; one, then the other. The Scales rock, spin, equalize, slide. The jars touch and collide and sparks fly, the air buzzes with ozone and stars. They do not stop. They do not end. No judgement is made.

“What happens?” the Companion asks.

“They go back again.”

The hearts are taken from the jars. A small piece goes to the gleaming teeth in the corner, a little slice to the peaceful eyes opposite, and a minute portion to the dark hands that placed them.

The hearts’ halves are spread and pressed together and passed through many hands to the East, to Again. At every bearing touch, there is Order and Chaos in each eternal hand, though none would be able to tell you which was which.


End file.
